Sing a Song of Sad Young Men
by Valieara
Summary: ...choking on their youth. Avaric and Glinda at the beginning of Son of a Witch.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Wicked _(books or musical) or _The Ballad of Sad Young Men._

**Spoilers:** _Son of a Witch_, along with its prerequisite.

**Notes:** Written while listening to Megan Hilty's rendition of _The Ballad of Sad Young Men_. While the quote below might have sparked the initial interest in doing this little bitty, the _Ballad_ did the rest. Feedback is always loved and appreciated. :-)

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"_The very Margreave of Tenmeadows, Lord Avaric himself, hasn't been able to get her Ladyship's attention..."_

_- Son of a Witch, pg. 80_

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The night outside was dark and cold; a grimy cold, at that. He'd known that cold: harsh, gritty, cleansing, altogether oxymoronic and contradictory. Pure, if one would take it that way; pure enough to scour the soul, grimy enough to refute the illusion, leaving one feeling merely dirty, aching, and exposed to such bitter, unregretful cold so as it hurt to move.

Grimy moon, grimy cold; what a night.

Avaric loosened the ends of his sleeves, kicking off his shoes in his study, and halfheartedly poured himself a glass of brandy. The ice clinked against the glass, the cold bit at his hands through the glass. He himself looked out, out the window, but he wasn't quite sure out where.

To be sure, he had seen Lady Glinda many places before, certainly after the days of their youth and marriages; in fact, it was rather hard for him to have missed her at every society to-do, every presentation, every ball, even the odd theatre performance. He hadn't really paid attention, nor had anyone expected him to do anything of the sort. He had made polite talk, she had maintained her connections with him, but never once had Shiz come up in conversation. He had a feeling she knew he wanted it that way; he also had a feeling that at that point, it was still too painful to bear.

It was a tradition they felt required to carry. It was altogether much more complicated, implicating a remembrance on both parts of the past, and a means to come to a tacit agreement not to mention it. It was, on the whole, far from shedding the burdens that were their pasts.

Glinda had not remained the girl he, or anyone, had known, in any case. The quietly fierce and intelligent girl with a simple pendant adorning her neck was transformed into a woman who drowned in silk gowns, sunk by silver chains, happily weighed down by studded and sparkling jewelry. First and foremost, however, she was a _woman_.

It was a pity. To say he had never pictured Glinda as one of the women who would eventually fade into the background as so many of them did would be a lie, out and out. But there was something, something as she grew and matured even in that year or two that had stood out and made him think maybe he was wrong. Avaric the schoolboy hadn't given a damn, really, much too caught up in his own glamour and wealth.

God knew he hadn't known her that well, anyway.

Her private coronation reception, the one after the first two or three (he'd lost count) formal and expected ones - the music had played, old songs from his teenage miscreant years; even, to the higher nobility's shock, a bawdy pub tune or two. Several of the guests, flushed and flustered with drink already, sang along. Lady Glinda herself stood to the side, flushed, though not with drink, and with a – unnamed-God help her – nostalgic smile about her eyes.

She did not sing.

Afterwards, the music had reverted to lighter dances and such, simple tunes with an extravagant style nearly everyone remembered from years and years ago. Those who were not drunk enough did not sing along, nor did they ever admit it. It was a throwback to an era, a time many wanted to recall but hadn't the gumption to say so. Avaric was not one of these, and had taken a drink out to the balcony to escape from the jewels and stiff suits, soon joined by Lady Glinda herself.

There had been no dropping of formality, for that would mean a regression in time that both were desperate to escape. There was no dropping of words, careless things, that might change the air, the strained aura they themselves had strived to perfect. The silence that ensued, or continued, was oddly more intimate and informal. Neither had the courage to break it.

It had been Avaric's mistake. He should have offered her a handkerchief, stood aloof and detached in the way gentlemen did. He should not have said her name, casting the stones back to a place and time that could not be recreated, most especially not for the two of them. Avaric and Glinda, who had hardly spoken. Avaric and Glinda, on opposite sides of the charmed circle. Lord Avaric, Lady Glinda, aloof and standing in all the discomfort of regality on the cold and drifting ledges of nobility. Avaric and Glinda, the unspoken tie that had never existed all that kept them standing in silence. Avaric reminisced.

Her head had bowed, her nose had sniffed daintily, her hand had risen swiftly to brush away a trail of wetness any lady would be properly ashamed of.

"Glinda," he had said, gently gripping her shoulder, a warning in his voice that he himself had not heeded. Too familiar – as much at that moment as it would have been long ago.

Avaric stared down at the ice in his glass of brandy. Her eyes, hard and cold as that, frozen in the night, furious and fiery – or just a brilliant reflection of the ice? Fire and ice, lethal in her eyes. It was terrible, and good to see. The angry and distraught schoolgirl suddenly blazed through a weary and fighting woman. An intelligent woman, who did not wield it as well without help.

"Those days are over, and you know it." Her voice had hissed above the smooth running of the stream below. Avaric had shivered; he did not know from what.

"What is this about, Glinda?" he ignored her. "Elphaba?"

Her eyes closed, and reopened, warm, melted into tears. "Stop."

He did not heed her warning, nor could he say what incited him into going on. Perhaps it was that flash, an image of a girl he remembered, a girl who needed to come forth to rule the country. Lady Chuffery could not do it, he was sure.

"You remember, your old roommate, bright green skin which didn't lend well to whatever prettiness she could have had, considering her angular qualities. Overly witty and rather brutal when making conversation – or, as the case was, even when not. Abandoned you here, left you desolate and inconsolable for nearly a month afterwards. I'm certain you couldn't have missed her."

She had whirled on him. Avaric blinked at the startling intensity he'd not seen in decades. "Don't ever speak to me of her again."

It was good to see, and terrible to see. It was too painful.

Avaric did not like to reminisce.

He had left, Lady Glinda still shaking over the marble railing of the balcony. He did not dare approach her when she later returned, a dazed expression on her face. Her tiara sparkled madly, unbalancing him. She did not notice.

She glanced at the terrace. "I thought I saw..." she stopped and shook her head, grabbing onto his arm. "I think I'm going mad," she had whispered softly, frightenedly.

Avaric furrowed his brow and left her for a moment to look outside. Seeing only what might have been a man wearing a cape on a boat several yards past, he turned to go back inside.

He cursed under his breath. She was gone, and Avaric could do no more.

Even unto the rejection of all notes he sent her. He could take a fair guess that there was some heavy handed gossip going on at the Chuffery manor.

Well, the country hadn't collapsed yet, so he figured she was alright.

_To the past_, he spontaneously, silently, toasted the wall. _For I didn't think it required this much._ He frowned afterwards, trying to place who had said it before.

_I didn't think friendship required this much. _A heated glare, a bony green arm thrust out god knew how long ago.

Avaric grinned, and raised his glass again.

"To friendship," he said aloud. "If you believe in it. To hope for a world far less lively without you, Elphie. Godspeed – if you believe in it." Feeling ridiculous, he drank, convincing himself the sudden change in atmosphere was because of it. The wind howled outside, suddenly given a voice. The cold seeped in cracks in the windows.

Avaric gulped in deep breathfuls.


End file.
